


Deadly

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: Botany, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Mistletoe, sweepingromance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: The prompt - "Mistletoe. Mistletoe can be deadly if you eat, but a kiss can be even deadlier if you mean it."
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37
Collections: Addams Family Holiday Exchange





	Deadly

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @Midnightlovestories for beta-ing.

* * *

_Viscum album._ It is curious, she thinks, kid-leather clad fingers caressing the thin verdure, pinching a frozen, resistant little berry until it twists off between the pad of her thumb and her forefinger – then depositing it in the silver bowl at her side - to think of how this humble plant has grown so monolithic in its festive role.

Despite its ubiquitous popularity, she has always favoured it.

It is unassuming and resilient and poisonous.

Her own variant, cultivated gently over several years, is nestled between its more robust relatives; _Synadenium Grantii, Ranunculus Sceleratus,_ _Arisaema Triphyllum._ And yet this little one is holding its own still, waiting patiently until she turns her attention to it every winter.

She often thinks of this corner of the garden as one requiring less of her attention than others, and it isn’t particularly demanding nor particularly pretty, but it is dear to her heart, nonetheless. These modest shrubs, with their neutral flowers and leathery leaves, are a perfect example of the illusions that her first and oldest love, botany, has at the very centre of its power. Her hothouse blooms vivid with plants which scream their danger, announcing their poison in vivid oranges and vicious purples, but this little collection is much more unassuming about its power, and all the more potent for it.

She adjusts on the cushion she uses to shield her knees from the frozen ground and layer of snow, and picks up her shears, which glint sharply in the white of the full moon. She breathes deeply, relishing the silence, the frozen, still air, and the slow falling snow – resting in pure arcs across the curved tops of the gravestones – and knows this is it, her one and only ritual she keeps strictly to herself, before the chaos begins, their family descends, and she must endure and enjoy for the sake of those she loves.

Tonight, she intends to make the most of the solitude afforded her, in the one place where she still feels entirely herself.

Sometimes it is easy to forget who she is, amongst all the things she is supposed to be.

The stalk of a particularly elegantly forked extension of the bush trembles as she grips it firmly, sliding her shears to snip it at a neat angle. The white berries, ripe and pure, glimmer as she pulls it free. She holds it up for inspection; it is perfectly symmetrical, the leaves curved regally and shining.

It brings her joy so deep it is silent, so profound, she feels it as if it is coursing through her blood. Sprung from the Earth, she thinks, to do poisonous things.

She understands it.

She balances the sprig atop the bowl of berries, and rises to her feet, bending only to pick up her shears and her glistening harvest and the velvet cushion – which she tucks under her arm – before leaving the garden undisturbed, save the footprints she deliberately treads in exactly the same path as she came.

She passes through the conservatory, toeing off her leather boots at the door, and shedding her cloak, gloves and the cushion at the chaise lounge at the double doors to the library. She stops for a moment to admire the towering evergreen dominating the hall, glittering with candles and black ribbons. It had taken her husband and the children and Lurch all day to complete, and it is undeniably magnificent. The gifts – carefully wrapped and presented – lie in an extensive puddle around the bottom.

All these things are ever thus, and she oversees them with diligence and enthusiasm and just the right touch of wry humour enough to keep Gomez on his toes.

She turns from the tree and makes for the drawing room, where the double doors are always open regardless of the time of day or season. There is a tree in there too; resplendent, and heavy with the handmade decorations, the delicate bird bones and taxidermy that the children have painstakingly crafted throughout their childhoods. It is a living exploration of their growth, their joys, their wants, their frustrations. Sometimes, in her more delicate moments, looking upon it makes her want to weep with loss and delight simultaneously.

But she has another agenda tonight, and sadness is low on it.

Lurch has kindly left the step for her, and a rich black ribbon and a pin sitting neatly to the side. She wraps the ribbon in loops around the length of the sprig, winding it carefully so it lies flush against the hard stem before rounding it off neatly in a bow. Lifting the skirt of her voluminous nightgown away from her feet, she climbs the three steps to the platform at the top, and it is just enough for her to stretch the length of herself to pin the mistletoe perfectly in the centre of the lintel.

She looks up at it, resplendent and just as beautiful as the other traditions, and tied with her so deeply.

She thinks of ravishing kisses, soft ones, full ones, stolen pecks on the cheek that are tame and lovely all at once.

Tomorrow morning, his lips will be her first gift and he will find excuse after excuse to stall her there, and regift her.

And she will let him.

“Might I take advantage now?”

She does not respond immediately, though a small smile curves her lips as she withdraws her hands from the bough and turns on the platform.

He is standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the balustrade.

He is like a Victorian fantasy; red velvet and ermine, a cigar burning through the vast darkness. Burningly handsome, and achingly hers.

“I awoke in a lonely bed.”

“You have poor timing,” she says softly. “Ten more minutes and you would never have known.”

He moves towards her, tossing the cigar aside, and puts his hands out. She pressed on his shoulders and falls against him, and he bears her weight as he lifts her from the steps and returns her to the floor.

“I have always wondered how the mistletoe got there…though I had my suspicions,” he says, a smile curling against her cheek.

“One of my few secrets,” she says into the skin of his neck.

There is no music, but there is never any true need for it either. When his hand flattens against the middle of her back, and his fingers find hers and bring them up to shoulder height and extend both of their hands outwards, she knows what he expects.

And he takes the lead, holding her in a waltz to carry her around the room, ghosting past the furniture, past their ancestors on the walls, past the dying fire and glowing Christmas tree. Then they are back in the doorway, and he is looking at her with a love which renders her breathless.

He looks upwards, and her eyes follow, and they are back exactly where they started – gorgeous verdure, spiking poison, enduring growth.

Which, for them, is always so fitting.

“May I?”

“Forever.”


End file.
